A narrow yard close to the cottage garden.
A store room, a work space, a tiny kitchen;
between wheat fields and the M1.
It is enough. The skill you practice here
salvaged from the slow, long past, lost
but for you. Nothing close by
but timber, Irish oak, wood shavings,
that smell of toil on tools.
Cork, Dublin, Belfast, your wheels abroad
in these busy places, spinning in real time
over tar macadam and cobbled pavements
while you bend your wrist to a new turn.